Weary Traveller

“Weary traveller, why have you come here? What is it that you seek?” You look around in a daze. You don’t remember why you came here; you don’t know how you came to be here. You only know that you were here for a reason; and even that reason is something that feels like you are grasping at straws for. It slips away, ebbs every time you try to recall it.

Why are you here?

You wonder silently to yourself as you take in the surroundings: the old lady sitting in her stool, the stagnant pool, next to the barren tree and ground, with its clear edges and murky depths, beckoning you to ponder its mysteries. You wonder to yourself if a reason for coming here could even exist. You humour yourself on the dire thought that maybe you once sent yourself here on a fruitless quest to die. Your parched throat indicating to you that a lack fluid to quench your thirst has yet to kill you; only of that, are you certain.

“Traveller, why are you here?”

The question comes again. You blink, and hazily turn your eyes to the woman.

“I…don’t know.”
“Come.”, the lady beckons you forward.
Your feet move even though your mind fails to remember giving them the command to do so. You wonder if this is a dream.

Maybe all life is a dream?

Standing in front of her, she scrutinizes you, passing her eyes over you, over your soul. You shudder at the things you would rather hide, but know her eyes can see.

“I’ve failed, haven’t I?”
“Failed what?” she questions

“I’ve failed the test you’ve set before me; whatever it was. Have I not? …I feel it. I feel like I have failed. And yet I recall doing nothing. Is that my crime then, doing nothing when I could have done something instead?”

The lady considers you for a moment.
“Feeling like you have failed, and actually failing are not one and the same. Mayhaps there are empty wins and triumphant losses that you can recall throughout your life that would prove a better yardstick for your thoughts than my words can now. Remember those, and remember that these treacherous thoughts you feel and hold now are not and were, and never are true. Feeling like a do-gooder never makes one one. Does it, my boy?”

She looks me in the eye, stares me down and mutters:

“Remember boy, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. That the path to righteousness may be paved with accidental meanderings and ill intentions gone awry or changed is equally just as much true.”

usually write with an end goal in mind. There are several stories I haven’t written because I’m too lazy and have no time, but well. Writing because I want to with no end goal in mind here. Pathetically abrupt ending, but nghh. well. A story with no purpose, about having no purpose. apt to a certain degree, as crummy as it is.

penned. 2/11/2014 12:21pm


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